One is the sister and the other one isn’t. A lover that I kissed and I hand that I held in my dreams. How could I ever love someone so much and discover, much to my delight, that perfection could always be more perfect? There isn’t much else to discuss, unfortunately. No matter how much I tried deluding myself into thinking I was wrong, regretful, or disgusted by the prospect, I instead decided to open myself to the feelings head-on.
The kiss of my life, I said often in between, but the flutter was always imagining the other one. What a kind fate did I deserve, that I could hold onto one, while the body of the other warmed my heart. There was a pressing issue at hand, ready to burst, and she was here, face and all, with a grin and a smile. They both had the same boring, brown eyes but they were full of life and love for me. They would kiss me passionately, one as the sister, one not.
I love you, I will love you always no matter what happens, I say one day and the sister nods, and the one who isn’t the sister nods. They both move in the same elegant way and smile at the smallest things. It is sickeningly sweet and eerily beautiful. To say that I could not make out their dark shadow in the moonlight as the lights dimmed and there was nothing but words and whispers. Two people to love, two people who love me in the darkness. The same darkness that betrayed me.
I kiss her one night and discover an innate fear that I was never able to articulate in my mind. I did not want it to happen but it did, and the more it goes on, the more the error dilutes, and the resignation rises. A guilty sense of weakness overcomes and before I know it, before I think, I say the name and when no answer comes, I say the other name. The night continues and the deed completes by itself, but the passion is gone. She leaves the room and I never, not even the next morning as they both look at me confused, angry, sad, and desperate, find out who it is that I lost my last shred of dignity.
I can explain, I say?, this could be my fault, but it is more than that, a confusion of the self, an identity crisis flung from my self-hatred onto you two, I cannot help it, I cannot help it.
The truth of the matter is that I don’t really say that because explaining myself at the moment is completely beyond my skills and abilities. I wish I had said that or I wish I had something cleverer.
I love you, I say, but I’m looking at the two of them, and that’s the truth, nothing else can be done.
Whatever happens after, I don’t remember for it is a turmoil of tears and anger and confusion that does not particularly intrigue me. They both were rightly in the same state of mind, but seeing it so out in the open removes the best thing about it. They are truly one and the same no matter how much they try to deny it, equally beautiful and equally obtuse, a shame that they couldn’t be bothered to simply be just one person for me.
Many months later I see them again from afar. We are walking to face each other but they do their best to avoid my look. How gorgeously cursed she is, her sister, and the one who isn’t her sister, too.